The Ritual

“Don’t ever make him choose.”

I frown. “I don’t under …”

“Between you and the Lords.”

Why would he think I’d make Ryat choose? I understand that he took an oath for them. And if they betray that, the penalty is death. “I would never …”

“You will. You may not mean to, but you’ll fight. Every couple does.” He takes a sip of his drink. “And when you get mad, he’ll yell and say some hurtful shit and then he’ll get called away for an assignment. And when he should be working, he’ll be checking his phone to see if you ever responded to his five apology texts.” He looks over at the window, the glass of scotch resting on his knee. “I’m not saying he’ll choose the Lords over you if you put him in that position.” His eyes come back to mine. “I’m telling you that he will pick you. And that’s what will get him killed. I know it’s selfish. To tell you to forget about your feelings and always put his first.”

“Isn’t that what you do when you love someone?” I ask softly.

He lifts his drink to his lips and snorts before throwing some back. “No two people love the same way. And everyone has a different opinion on what love actually is.”

I sigh. Ryat and I do fight. A lot. Will it always be like this? Once everything is out in the open and there are no more secrets, will we still go at each other’s throats? I can’t answer those questions, but I do understand that Tyson isn’t wrong. Ryat would go crazy if he had to leave, and I was mad and ignoring his texts. “How often will they take him from me?”

“There are no set dates. But Ryat is one of the best, and the Lords know that. It could be three times in one year or it could be twenty.” He shrugs carelessly. “He could get called out after breakfast and return before dinner. Or he could miss Christmas, anniversaries, and the birth of every child you guys decide to have.” Lifting the drink, he finishes it off. Setting it down on the table, he runs a hand down over his lips and unshaven face. “A Lord serves whenever he is called. We’re machines bred for war. And someone, somewhere is always trying to wage one.”

His answer doesn’t make me feel any better. But it makes me wonder how he knows this. Is it from experience? I know something happened to his chosen, but he also doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Which makes me curious why he never moved on. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He surprises me with no hesitation.

“You’re older.”

A sly smile spreads across his face, making his blue eyes shine brighter. “That’s not a question.”

I swallow nervously. “Three years older than Ryat. Why aren’t you married to a Lady?” He just stares at me, that smile now gone, and I feel I need to explain. Shifting in my seat, I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “I thought you know, pretty much all Lords are arranged to marry someone before they graduate from Barrington.”

He nods. “They are. The Lords feel a man is better respected with a wife. It makes them look dependable and trustworthy to the outside world.”

“So you never had an arranged marriage in place?” I’m not sure if his chosen was just for fun or if she was the one he planned on marrying, but I’m not going to ask him that.

“There was.” He relaxes back into the leather of his seat. “But circumstances change. And I saw an opportunity. The Lords needed someone to do their dirty work.”

“Blackout?” I make sure I’m following.

He nods. “I was supposed to wear a suit and tie, run a multibillion dollar business—have the gorgeous wife with a dog, two kids.” He waves his hand in the air. “All that shit. Which, at one point, I thought I wanted. But just like anyone else, I changed my mind and presented the Lords with an offer. I choose to take Blackout for one reason.”

“Which is?” I ask slowly, wondering if I’m digging in too much, but he’s willingly giving me information. Ryat would never tell me about Tyson, and I respect that about him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.

“They agreed to let me pick who I marry. When the time comes.” A slow devious smile spread across his face, showing off his perfectly white teeth.

My frown deepens. “You wanted freedom to pick who you marry so much that you gave up your higher title of a Lord?”

That smiles widens into something sinister. “I’m the kind of man who will crawl across the floor and lick the dirt off your shoes like a peasant begging a king for some scraps. Just to make you think I’m weak. So, when they look away from me, I can slit their throats.”